


Time To Move Our Feet (To An Introspective Beat)

by starsandgutters



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, GOD IDK I JUST WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY OK, Gansey is alive and well don't even talk to me right now, Love Declarations, M/M, Schmoop, basically gen but there's some language?, hence the T+ rating, that happen in a ridiculous way because these two are ridiculous dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t a scenario Adam had ever expected to find himself in. Something similar, perhaps, but there are a few key details he could never have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time To Move Our Feet (To An Introspective Beat)

**Author's Note:**

> _It ain't the speakers that bump hearts, it's our hearts that make the beat;_   
>  _And I'll be holding on to you._
> 
> This is what happens when I'm stuck at a library, ostensibly studying, but really listening to Twenty One Pilots and feeling all my feels for these two. (Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.)

This isn’t a scenario Adam had ever expected to find himself in. Something similar, perhaps, but there are a few key details he could never have imagined.

Himself, freshly turned 19 and attending college in New York: that part was not surprising. The warm coat and scarf shielding him from the November chill: also an element he’d often fantasized about. Sitting at a table by the window of a hipster-chic bistrot with Ronan Lynch sitting opposite him: not something he would have put his hypothetical money on. Ronan, his boyfriend of several months: _definitely_ unexpected.

It’s pleasant, though; he quietly admits as much to himself as he watches Ronan stare out the window. The city looks very pretty in the cold autumn sun, but Ronan’s squinting at it suspiciously, because first of all, it isn’t Henrietta, and second of all, it sees Adam on a daily basis and he doesn’t: ergo, it sucks by default.

“It’s odd,” Adam says, surprising himself; he hadn’t meant to speak up at all, but he can never quite predict his actions around Ronan. “Having you here, I mean. Just—settled into all this.” He gestures vaguely to include the city, the student-filled restaurant, Adam’s general existence in New York.

Ronan had driven up here two days ago for a long weekend, and Adam had been surprised at how seamlessly Ronan had seemed to fit into his new life. It was a quality of Ronan’s, Adam knew, the ability to just _belong_ places in a way Adam both loved and envied, but he wouldn’t have expected it to happen here, in a place so far from the wild Virginia countryside that had shaped them both. Ronan had been interested in seeing Adam’s new haunts, and even more interested in Adam himself; he’d even had the good grace to be nice – in the Ronan Lynch version of the word, which was more similar to “not outright aggressive” – to Adam’s posh coursemates, which Adam was fiercely grateful for.

“Odd how?” Ronan asks, eyes narrowed, running a brisk hand through his hair. He’s recently decided to grow it out, and while still relatively short, it’s getting long enough that Adam can see it start to curl into dark brown waves. It’s rather attractive.

“Good odd,” Adam hurries to clarify. “Like, surprising, but pleasant. I’m happy you’re here,” he smiles.

“Yeah?” Ronan asks, his lips tugging upward, and Adam can hear the poorly concealed relief in the word.

“Yeah,” he nods, resting his chin on his hand and leaning forward a bit. “I could get used to it.”

He waits to see if Ronan will catch on to the implications of that. He does, and his face shifts quickly through a series of expressions: surprise, wariness, happiness, guilt.

“There’s the farm,” he mutters, looking down. By which he means the Barns, of course, but also everything in it: all the dream things he’s still trying to sort through, to decide if it’s safe for Matthew and Aurora to finally live in it.

“Of course,” Adam nods. He hadn’t expected a different answer, but there’s still a cold trickle of disappointment going through him.

Ronan has started destroying a paper napkin. Adam reflects that instead of Chainsaw taking after her owner, Ronan seems to  be taking after her.

“It’s okay,” he goes on, trying to reassure them both. “I don’t expect you to just up and move here.” Ronan had done his best to cope when Adam had left for college. Because he was Ronan, his best had involved a lot of door-slamming, car-racing and angry sulking, but he’d never outright guilted Adam for leaving, so Adam’s not going to do it to him now.

“I _want_ to,” Ronan says, morosely, and Adam believes him instantly, can hear how much Ronan misses him just from the sullen longing in those words.

“It’s all going to be fine,” Adam says, with a smile. “We’ve got time.” He tries to say it like Gansey would: with rock-steady certainty and buoyant optimism. But he’s not – has never been – Gansey, and his words come out wry instead of reassuring, his smile leaning towards the grimace side.

It’s a strange and painful thing, missing Ronan so much. Their relationship is still new and fragile, and untested in this big, cold city, where there are no magical forests or sleeping kings to hold them together. But seeing Ronan here, so at ease in Adam’s presence, dark and beautiful in his leather jacket, just makes Adam realize how badly he wants him to stay.

Pursing his lips, he makes a decision. He’d like to say it was a brave decision, but really, he’s been mulling it over for a long while, because Adam Parrish likes to plan as carefully as he can, calculating his risks before he takes them. Not to say he can’t be reckless – especially when Ronan’s around – but this isn’t something he wants to be reckless about.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. Ronan looks up, fingers still working around the pieces of napkin.

“I would hope so,” he replies, “since you’re attending an Ivy League school.” The words are dressed up in disinterest, but Adam’s always been good at seeing right through that, so he doesn’t let it bother him.

“So we’ve been doing this for a while, right? And I’ve been—I’m really happy. I hope you are, too. I was really glad you drove up here. And, you know, there’s—there’s something I wanted to say.”

Ronan’s eyes go wide, and his posture stiffens imperceptibly, defensively; he seems to sense something big coming, because he reacts to it in his usual way: by trying to shitbag his way out of it.

“Aw, Parrish, come on,” he drawls. “Don’t make this awkward.”

“Shut up,” Adam says pleasantly, trapping the _dickhead_ between his teeth. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s called Ronan, but it would ruin the mood.

They stare at each other for a few moments – Adam calm and unflinching, even though his heart is hammering; Ronan wary and glowering , shreds of paper littering the table before him. It’s Adam who breaks the stare-off.

“I love you,” he says, before he loses his nerve. He’s really proud of how steady his voice is. It isn’t that he doubts what he’s feeling; he wouldn’t have said it if he wasn’t sure. He’s smart enough to know that the only thing worse than not loving Ronan would be telling him he loved him if he didn’t mean it. But though Adam _is_ sure – and is reasonably sure it’s a mutual feeling, as well – it’s still a terrifying thing to offer up to someone like Ronan Lynch, who could so easily destroy anyone he wanted with just a sneer and a cold word.

Ronan is staring at him still. His wary expression has been replaced by a  strangely fragile openness, and there’s a muscle working in his jaw, like he’s not sure if he should speak or smile or yell or run.

He isn’t _saying_ anything, though.

Adam starts to second-guess himself, and his heart picks up speed dizzily, sinking to his stomach. _Mistake, I made a mistake, what the fuck was I thinking, I ruined everything, I made everything ugly, shit,_ his brain yells as his stomach knots itself over. He can feel the makings of a panic attack start to form, but then Ronan suddenly reaches forward and takes his hand across the table.

“What?” Adam snaps, still feeling unbearably exposed.

“ _What_ what?” Ronan retorts, with a haughty eyebrow arched. “Like you actually need a reply to know?” He says it so offhandedly, like it’s all obvious, like Adam’s an idiot for not figuring it out on his own, which Adam feels is a little unfair.

“Of course I fucking love you, Parrish,” Ronan says. He looks angry about it, because that’s Ronan’s default state of being, but his cheek is twitching, like he’s trying hard to hold in a smile. “As if I haven’t been sitting on this for over a damn year,” he adds, muttering. He throws it at Adam like it’s something unimportant and annoying, but Adam’s a very good listener, and his heart surges back up in his chest with the meaning of it.

 _Ronan has loved me for over a year,_ he thinks, his chest filling up with a nameless, bubbling joy; _Ronan’s been in love with me for almost as long as we’ve known each other._

It’s mindboggling and wonderful and Adam tries not to grin so wide, but he can’t help it. The city suddenly looks brighter than just a few minutes before.

Ronan’s fidgeting with the pieces of the paper napkin, the wary beginnings of a smile on his face, as if he’s trying to decide if the danger is over and he’s allowed to relax.

Because Adam’s a terrible person, he decides not to let him off the hook just yet.

“You could at least have the decency to call me by name, then,” he deadpans.

Ronan stares at him. “You aren’t fucking serious,” he groans, extending his legs under the table so they deliberately knock into Adam’s.

Adam just crosses his arms, still smiling.

There’s an exasperated eyeroll. “Ugh, _fine,_ ” Ronan concedes as if he’s giving up a kidney. “I love you, _Adam_. There. Happy now?”  The words seem to tug his lips into a smile on their way out, though; as if he’d been waiting to try them out on his tongue, and had only just discovered they tasted good.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “Yeah, I kinda am.” He pokes Ronan’s foot with his own, arms still crossed, not because he needs the attitude anymore, but because he has a feeling if he uncrosses them he won’t be able to stop himself from putting his hands all over Ronan.

“This place is stupidly fucking fancy, by the way,” Ronan says, and it’s plain to see from the blush gracing his face and neck that he’s trying to deflect the focus from what just happened.

“Oh, shut up. You ordered a _salad._ ”

“What? I like shrimp.”

“You’re such a soft rich fucker,” Adam laughs, repurposing Gansey’s old nickname.

“You take that back!”

“Make me.”

“I will tell your roommate you’re half magical forest.”

“Whatever. He’ll just think you’re crazy.”

Ronan shrugs, conceding the point like the thought doesn’t bother him too much.

“You want dessert? They have really good brownies here,” Adam suggests as a peace offering.

“Brownies it is. But I’m buying.”

“Ronan—“

“ _I can pay for myself, Ronan, I don’t need your damn charity_ ,” Ronan cuts him off in a high falsetto that sounds nothing like Adam. His fake Henrietta accent hasn’t gotten any better either. “What the fuck ever. I live on a farm I own, and I don’t have any college fees to pay. Let me buy you the fucking brownie.”

Adam smiles despite himself. “You’re such an asshole,” he states, and adds, “but I love you anyway.” He feels very clever for having tacked it on to the tail end of an insult. All casual.

Ronan’s blush doesn’t recede, choosing instead to extend to his ears. He picks at the leather bands around his wrist and studiously doesn’t look at Adam has he raises his hand to summon a waiter.

“Love you too,” he mutters, doing an awfully poor job of hiding his smile this time.

Adam pokes his foot again.

Yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> The place Adam and Ronan eat at was inspired by my lunch today at a delightfully hip little restaurant in Milan called California Bakery; ironically, I'm pretty sure that franchise doesn't even exist in America.


End file.
